


Defining Expressions

by DarknessBreathing (Breath4Soul)



Series: John is a Tender BAMF [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry John, BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, Dark John Watson, Dom John Watson, Eventual Fluff, Expressions, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, For Science John, Funny, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Idiots in Love, Inappropriate Behavior, Inappropriate Erections, John is a Sex God, John is a tease, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mind Palace, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Revenge, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock always misses something, Sherlock is a Brat, Silly Sherlock, Sleepy Cuddles, Suggested threats of non-con, Unintended Consequences, but not really, mutal pinning, observation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-12 16:24:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7113352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/DarknessBreathing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>Sherlock wants to understand John's many facial expressions, but when he attempts to observe his companion while he is sleeping things quickly take an unexpected turn.<br/></b>
</p><blockquote>
  <p>“Nice and tired now, are we?” John growls dark and voracious into the juncture of that long, pale neck and shoulder. Sherlock’s muscles try to tense but can only manage a quiver before they fall back into unworkability. All the hairs on his body stand at alert and his heart jackrabbits into high gear, though it seems to do nothing to fuel his muscles to actually move. He just lies there in John’s clutch, panting, his eyes skittering along the headboard he is forced to look at from the way his head is being held, desperately seeking some insight that will help him get out of this situation.<br/></p>
</blockquote>Inspired by a post on Tumblr by <i>melancholyskysherlockstuff</i><br/>And a request from Sherlock-and-John-Getting-it-on
            </blockquote>





	1. Logical Symbol

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celesteal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celesteal/gifts).



Sherlock will never tell him this, of course, but John Watson is a delightfully captivating enigma. An endless mystery that the detective is always working to unravel in a wing of his Mind Palace designed especially for that purpose. 

Almost daily new facts are hauled in, examined and reshuffled. New formulas are tested and new rubrics applied. The work of discovering the essence of John Watson never ceases yet has thus far proven frustratingly fruitless. 

As Sherlock sank into his Mind Palace this evening with the intention of filing away the details of their most recent case, he found himself following the cart of data being hauled off to John’s discovery wing. He opened the door to the room devoted to interpreting John, allowing the new data to shuffle in and looked around the space. He stood before the giant board where all the conclusive facts were pinned and found it worryingly sparse.

He can only surmise that he needs more data. 

And that, _he thinks to himself,_ is the perfectly logical reason why he finds himself perched carefully on the edge of the ex-army doctor's bed staring down at his sleeping form in the dim light flowing in the window.

It is no small blessing that the ex-soldier sleeps so heavily when within the confines of 221B, no doubt feeling himself safe enough to allow his natural vigilance to slip. When a case takes them out of town and they find themselves sleeping elsewhere John always reverts to sleeping lightly and waking easily, as he had in his army days. However here, his rest is deep and his peace is complete. Which makes conditions perfect for data collection without disturbing the subject. 

As Sherlock studies his friend’s now relaxed features he contemplates the crux of the problem relentlessly plaguing his obsessive brain tonight; John’s face. More accurately it is the nearly infinite combination of alterations of those soft features to communicate his otherwise unknowable inner state. Sherlock needs time to observe John without the act of being observed tainting John's emotional expressions. Sleep seems a perfect opportunity to do so. 

The detective's task should be easy. The good doctor rarely schools his expressions. He plainly displays an intriguing array of subtle variations. Yet Sherlock still struggles to put names to far too many of these; only discerning by context and deduction the probable meanings of a couple dozen. The true meaning behind some of these expressions, much to his frustration, eludes him altogether. 

It is an unusually warm night, so John is in nothing but a dark gray pair of pajama bottoms with a navy pair of boxer-briefs peeking out from underneath. His restless legs appear to have kicked most of the light gray cotton sheet away so that it falls at his waist. He is on his his back, but slightly turned toward Sherlock, resting mostly on his right hip. His right arm is tucked under the pillow supporting his head, the other is bent so that his fingers rest lightly on his higher hip, fingertips twitching gently against the strong muscle there. His solid chest is rising and falling in shallow breaths and Sherlock allows himself a moment to run his eyes over that gnarled scar on his left shoulder, his insides pulling in strange ways as he considers it.

He mentally scorns himself, reminding himself that he is here to observe John's facial expressions, not catalog his physical features (a job for another time, perhaps - _one can hope_ ) and promptly turns his eyes to John's face. 

He watches carefully as the emotions pull John's features into slightly muted expressions. He observes the flutter of blond eyelashes over sand colored cheeks, the subtle arching and flexing of thick eyebrows and a twitching at the corner of his lips evidencing the fact that he is dreaming of interacting with someone. His brow twitches down and his lips go straight and thin indicating _frustration._ Yes, Sherlock knows John's _frustrated expression_. He has had many opportunities to see that deployed in context. 

John's lips then thrust forward and a word that sounds remarkably like a half-formed muttering of Sherlock’s name rolls from John’s mouth and his face twitches into another expression like amusement.

Sherlock is fascinated and thrilled knowing John is dreaming about him. Something in knowing he has high enough significance to play a role in John’s subconscious meanderings makes his insides warm. He wonders if when he appears in John’s dreams he looks as clever and mysterious as John makes him out to be in his blog. Is it the Sherlock that says things that are _a bit not good_ , leaves experiments in the fridge next to the milk and nearly sets the kitchen on fire that he brings forth or is it the one that is _‘amazing’_ and _‘brilliant’_ and so captivating and charming that the ex-army doctor is compelled to share his story? Given John’s expression of frustration, he must assume it is the former version of himself that is helping John’s subconscious work through some unaddressed issues from the day. _Pity._

Sherlock cranes his neck and tries to turn his head to get a better read on John's fluctuating expressions. At last he concludes the angle is not optimal and he carefully lays himself down facing John. He stares directly into his sleeping face. Closer now, he can pick up so much more detail. 

_‘Yes, much better. A good move ’_ he thinks. 

The detective watches the small gusts of breaths from John’s slightly parted lips make the pillowcase tremble like a lover in eager anticipation of a kiss. He blinks these thoughts away and focuses on the way John's eyes crinkle at the corners, his chin tightens and his cheeks and eyebrows lift into a humored, challenging expression. Sherlock can’t help the smile that spreads on his own face at that look, which usually accompanies their companionable battle of wits, when they get going in a good verbal sparring. 

_Yes, John. We are both so clever in your dreams, then._

Then those soft features gather in a bit with something different, an intense expressions that Sherlock has seen before in brief flashes but never has been able to classify. The very expression that brought him here tonight because it had flickered across John’s face after they had managed to take down the murder this evening. Through their combined efforts, without so much as a word to each other, just a look, they had set in motion a plan that was somehow just _understood._

_Things have changed then? For good or for bad? Dreams are most likely to be an attempt to live out a wish, an opportunity to confront a fear in an attempt to mitigate it, or an exploration of a considered path to determine possible outcomes. Which is this?_

The look is heated and tense, but not anger. There is no smile, but there is some air of awe and warmth to it. It is set, not wavering or uncertain, yet it is oddly nebulous and undefinable. Sherlock once again holds it up to all the visual cue cards of established emotions and finds no match.

A hint of a smile then flows across John's face before his features settle into another countenance that the detective is positive he hasn't seen before, a variation of the first but with something more intense and almost fierce around the mouth and eyes, yet his jaw is relaxed, lips soft and open in an oddly pliant way.

An interesting sound like a moan emanates from the sleeping man and Sherlock finds his body making an involuntary shudder. It is not a sound he has heard from John before. Though, he sometimes make a lighter version of this sound when he has had a particularly good bite of food after its absence for what he deems an inappropriate amount of time. _A general expression of pleasure then._ Yet this sound is rougher, rolling from deep inside his chest and seeming to have a pained edge mixed with the pleasure. Sherlock shuts his eyes and tries to compare the auditory file to clips he has collected over the years. 

He is brought back to his days at uni and an empty hall of the dorms. He hears something from inside the room he is briskly striding past. At the sound he pauses, looks down at a sock hung on the handle of the door, and cautiously moves closer. He hears a moan followed by an answering breathy exhalation. The young, curly-haired man can’t open the door so he can’t be certain what was going on behind it, but the tone of pleasure spiked with pain holds all the same notes as John’s sound.

Sherlock pops open his eyes to search John’s face. Suddenly the ex-soldier shifts and a strong arm is slung around the detective’s waist and he is being drawn towards the doctor. He is startled, frozen in shock as he is unceremoniously dragged across the bed and held fast to John's bare chest. His heart is racing and he knows he should breathe, but taking in a puff of air he is overwhelmed by the scent of John sending an intoxicating wave of warmth through his entire body. Letting the air out is worse as his lips, parting in a desperate gasp, move against that warm flesh of his friend’s chest and electricity shoots from that point through Sherlock’s entire body. 

John is humming sleepily in pleasure somewhere above his head, lips burying in his curls in a way that sends hot and cold shivers pulsing down Sherlock’s spine. His hands are pinned. One arm is held fast between himself and the mattress and the other is pinned to his side at the upper arm by John’s strong arm encircling him; his thick hand pressed firmly in the middle of Sherlock's back. He is unable to see anything, completely surrounded by John’s flesh as the ex-soldier holds him in a surprisingly fierce grip for a man fast asleep. He bends his arm at the elbow, trying to find a hold on John with which to gently push away, but his fingers skim against a strong thigh and a cotton-clad hip, then a bare abdomen, muscles twitch beneath his touch. His mind spins; the whirring sounding like an enormous industrial fan in his ears, which he then recognizes is the whoosh of his own blood flowing maddeningly fast through his body.

 _’Move!’_ he mentally screams at his unruly transport that has decided to freeze, fingertips resting on John’s lower ribs, head buried against his chest. He takes two deep breathes and arches back to break the hold, which has the unintended consequence of bringing his pelvis flush with John’s, and there can be no mistaking what that earlier moan had indicated now because Sherlock’s brain once again goes blank at the new sensation of a hard length pressed into his stomach. Sherlock’s mind sputters into high gear. Engine racing while his body is stuck in neutral.

_No. No. No. Not good. Very not good. John is going to wake and see his own state and be embarrassed and angry at Sherlock and refuse to hear all his (very logical) reasons for invading his privacy and climbing into bed with him... making this awkward situation happen. He will accuse him of manipulating or experimenting on him. Then he will never be able to relax and he will feel he needs to be forever hyper-vigilant, even here at his own flat, and that will be unacceptable so he will move out and Sherlock will go back to living alone and they won’t be able to laugh and joke and chase criminals through the streets of London anymore._

_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why do you always have to be so stupid._

Sherlock is nearly in the throes of a full blown panic attack now. He doesn’t know what to do. His whole body is throbbing with the beat of his heart. He feels it in his head, between his shoulder blades and in his pelvis; everywhere they touch. He is sure it must be rocking him with the force of each thump. He tries to focus his mind. He tries to block the overwhelming sensory input and just concentrate on the problem at hand. He must extract himself and he must do it without waking up John.


	2. Meaningful Combination

_’Muscle memory. Plain and simple. Automatic reactions. A primal, involuntary impulse. All very reasonable. Expected. Dull, even.’_

At least that's what Sherlock tells himself as he finds his own body betraying him once again this evening with an awareness of a (definitely unwelcome) considerable length of painfully engorged flesh jabbing into John's thigh.

_’Fear can sometimes cause arousal.’_

Even as he thinks this excuse he immediately discounts it. He would, of course, never admit to John that he is afraid. Not _again._ Not after Baskerville. No, admitting he is afraid is only slightly less mortifying than admitting that he finds the man arousing, a point that is soon to become undeniably evident if he does not devise a way to free himself from his flatmate’s unyielding embrace.

He diligently avoids the stream of input from John’s proximity; his scent, the sight of his muscles, some flexed, some relaxed, the various textures of the hills, valleys and planes of his body, all tempestuously laid out before the detective, within reach for his exploration. If he allowed himself to be diverted from the task at hand he could be easily lost in hours of avid fascination. As appealing as immersing himself in the task of discovering John’s (ever present and ever distracting) physicality is, Sherlock is aware that his friend waking to _that_ would break the delicate balance that exists between them. John had called what they have _friendship_. Sherlock wouldn’t really know - not having much practical experience in that area. He is, however, fairly certain that it is an agreed upon tenet of friendship that one does not molest friends with unsolicited touches during sleep. 

Assessing the situation he determines that the only way he can possibly accomplish dislodging himself from being so utterly engulfed in John is to take a slow and measured approach. This will require stealth, precision and patience.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly and begins the excruciatingly small flexing and holding of muscles to extract himself from John’s grip. He determines twisting to face away from John to be critical to success and so begins to change his position, shifting a centimeter every few minutes, stopping completely any time there is the slightest change in John’s breathing or an unexpected movement of his muscles. 

He has disciplined his body to a great many things over the years; to go without eating, to go without sleeping, to stay very still. One thing he is now painfully aware that he has failed to cultivate in it is the ability to endure the ongoing strain of such minute movements. He is always either in motion or completely still, but this is somewhere in between, requiring quite a bit more concentration and strength than he ever anticipated. 

His muscles quiver uncontrollably after a mere thirty minutes of straining to arch ever so slightly over John’s arm in order to turn himself as he is held aloft. He resigns and slowly lowers himself to rest on John’s arm, losing some ground in his effort to turn himself but accepting it as a better option than shaking John awake by the uncontrollable muscle tremors coursing through him from the tension and strain throughout his body. 

It is an hour and a half later before Sherlock is fully turned in John’s arms. He feels the paradoxical decline in the ability of his muscles to generate force. He is both in a better position to try to free himself and yet completely incapable of doing so, having spent all his reserves of energy and strength to get to this point. The muscles appear to have simply _‘stopped listening’_ and have gradually ceased to move. John’s arm still presses down on him like an inexorable weight holding him as steadfast as an iron vice. Even as he tries to move and his body fails to respond he knows that he has been defeated by simple muscle fatigue. His unprepared body is at its limits.

He lays there limply slumping away from John as much as the embrace will allow. He is humiliated at his own defeat and resigned to his fate. He loathes his deficient vessel that seems to have abandoned all efforts at usefulness. He pushes aside the white noise of various muscles aching and tries to sink into his Mind Palace. John will wake soon and the detective will have to find some way to rationalize his current predicament to what promises to be an emotionally irate ex-soldier. Given that he is clearly going nowhere, even once released from John’s unintentional hold, it will take all his skill to make a persuasive enough argument to ensure he is forgiven... _eventually_ if not immediately. 

He is tucked into the inner room of John’s wing of his Mind Palace, sorting approaches utilized during previous arguments and their corollary results to try to create an appropriate formula that will most likely produce a favorable outcome. When an adept hand slowly and purposefully sweeps up his chest, pulling him back to the surface. 

As he blinks himself back into awareness, sturdy fingers curl around his throat, pushing his chin up and holding his head tipped back. Just as he tries to form words, those fingers flex dangerously, just a suggestion of the capability for destruction latent within them, and his mind is hijacked by a sudden sense of vulnerability at having his neck so exposed. Some small but powerful primal part of his base consciousness (that he has often managed to ignore) begins cowering at the certainty that something is about to tear his throat out. It is draining away all reasoning and pulling all his conscious thoughts under its shroud of fearful darkness.

“Nice and tired now, are we?” John growls dark and voracious into the juncture of Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock’s muscles try to tense but can only manage a quiver before they fall back into unworkability. All the hairs on his body stand at alert and his heart jackrabbits into high gear, though it seems to do nothing to fuel his muscles to actually move. He just lies there in John’s clutch, panting, his eyes skittering along the headboard he is forced to look at from the way his head is being held, desperately seeking some insight that will help him get out of this situation. 

_Move! Speak! For god’s sake do something,’_

He screams internally, but he can only manage to flutter his hands against his thigh; fingers dancing lightly over the fabric. His mind is scrabbling for one of the many excuses he'd pondered offering his friend. 

“John-” Sherlock finally breathes after an agonizingly long moment of feeling the ex-soldier’s breath whispering across his neck; seeming to curl into his skin and slither along his nerves like liquid fire. He struggles to focus, attempting to identify and catalog the various textures of John’s fingers on his throat; smooth and rough, army hard and doctor soft. 

“Shhhh,” John shushes softly into his curls, his warm breath tickling at the hollow of Sherlock’s ear making his body shudder. Though quiet, there is no questioning the authority in that tone; hard and commanding, an unspoken expectation of being obeyed. Sherlock, who in all other aspects of his life has sneered and scoffed and rebelled against the suggestion that anyone might have authority over any aspect of his personage, found himself completely taken aback by his own visceral reaction to seeing John deploy this tone for the first time at the military base at Baskerville. He found his own body snapping to the sound; a swarm of irrational needs (to hear John’s praise, to have his protection, to see him fully restored to a sense of himself) coalescing into a certainty that he wanted John to use that tone with him. He wanted to know what it was like to submit to that unquestionable steely resolve. Hearing it again, now, makes Sherlock’s brain flicker and dim into a dull hush. 

The strong hand on his neck slips up over his chin and cups his mouth, pressing down on his lips with gentle but firm pressure. 

“None of that now,” the doctor admonishes, voice firm and intense. “I've been _very_ patient.” Sherlock tries to focus on breathing through his nose as he feels another hand begin to work over his chest with gentle caresses in a way that would be soothing if it wasn't so terribly arousing. 

His mind scrambles for some purchase, searching fruitlessly through his databases of previous John reactions to try to find some understanding of his friend's current behaviour. It comes up blank and horrifyingly he feels the light continuing to dim on his Mind Palace until there is only darkness. Panic settles over him like dark roiling clouds giving off violent electrical strikes that only illuminate alarming, primitive thoughts about dominance, desire and danger. In the absence of light there is just the crackling static of his every nerve alight with John's touch and the panicked whimpers of that ugly and fearful _primal being_ begging him to run and find somewhere safe to hide. 

“Read an article the other day,” John says in a low gravely voice as his lips brush across Sherlock’s neck, lightly ghosting hot breath across his flesh. Something in his stern tone seems predatory and ravenous in a way Sherlock hasn't heard before. He shivers as John's fingertips slide lightly over his body, his skin blossoming in goosebumps everywhere he touches, every nerve buzzing. That sturdy palm runs flat over his nipples and they immediately harden underneath the thin fabric of his shirt. 

“Turns out there's mounting evidence that our primitive ancestors would hunt prey simply by following at a walking pace without rest or sleep until the prey _died of exhaustion._ ” The hard, sharp edge of John's teeth scrape slowly along Sherlock’s shoulder like a whisper of a threat. Sherlock tries to swallow, but a whimper that sounds pitiful and defeated crawls out of him and is mercifully muffled by John’s hand over his mouth.

The teeth halt right under Sherlock’s ear and hover there. John's hand continues to work maddeningly light circles into his skin and through his shirt. Sherlock closes his eyes, giving in to the sensation. His realizes that his waning arousal is back in full force. Apparently, not all his muscles are exhausted, _god help him._

He whines under John’s fingers wanting to explain, make an excuse, and flee; knowing he is utterly beyond the capacity to do any of those things. 

“It's called _pursuit predation._ ” John’s voice rumbles from deep in his chest, darker and rawer, almost animalistic. A thrill shoots down Sherlock’s spine and he quivers. John’s mouth closes on the sensitive flesh over his pulse point and nips down. Sherlock’s mouth opens against the ex-soldier’s palm in a yelp. Two of John's fingers slip inside the opening and Sherlock's lips close tight around the welcome intrusion, sucking on them desperately without thought, the sensation of something of John in his mouth a surprising comfort to the primal being that now seems to be ruling the void left when his logical mind retreated. 

John makes a noise of surprise quickly followed by a little groan of pleasure that seems unintentional by the way he bites down on the end of it. The thought of John losing some modicum of control makes Sherlock feel as if his flesh is melting off. He sucks harder hoping to hear a break in John's command and strict self-control again, but the ex-soldier seems to have recovered his composure completely. His hand slides confidently across Sherlock’s stomach, clamping around that thin waist and pulling him back flush against his strong body; allowing him to feel the hard length of him pressed into the swell of his arse. 

“Being a military man, this tactic naturally intrigued me,” John says smoothly, a ravening undercurrent seeping up through the last two words. His hands tighten slightly into the flesh of abdomen, reminding Sherlock pointedly just how helplessly ensnared he is. “Don't need to out-think you or out-fight you... just need to _outlast you,_ ” John purrs. He holds that lean body firmly in place as his hips roll in a long, slow, sensual movement against Sherlock’s backside that has the helplessly captivated man’s whole body quaking with anticipation. 

He is overwhelmed with the sensation of every centimeter of John pressed against his back, sternum to calf; strong chest heaving, hips rotating in precise and controlled circles, thighs flexing as he leverages himself to drive against Sherlock. Another whimper vibrates in his throat and John’s chest presses harder against his back as if he is leaning in to listen.

“So weak, aren’t ya now,” John says in a softer voice, almost placating, though still edged with steel. His hand has returned to its ministrations over Sherlock’s body occasionally raking his fingers down his ribcage as his hips continue to roll in light, teasing circles. 

“Can’t hardly move with all that stress and strain for so long.” Sherlock shivers as John pauses to run his lips up the line of his neck. His mouth hovers directly above Sherlock’s ear. “I could do anything I want to you now, and you couldn’t do a thing about it,” he growls, nipping at his earlobe. John’s teeth clamp down while his hips rock forward in a smooth, sinuous wave. Sherlock keens at the sudden jolt of pain as his tongue flicks erratically against John’s fingers. He hears a stifled grunt from behind as those sensual movements lose their rhythm for a beat.

“Brilliant effort, really… but now, _my prey,_ you have exhausted your metabolic resources,” John's voice has gone rougher, the raw desire mixed with something fierce and ruthless. “Shall I put you out of your misery then?”

_Oh, god, yes!_

Sherlock's brain and body seem to scream in unison and he squeezes his eyes shut tighter as all his muscles make one last attempt at movement and he only manages to shudder backwards on the bed against John. John stills at this. 

“Are you scared, Sherlock?” John demands in a sharp tone, his body moving away a little bit. Sherlock wants to answer, but the sudden loss of contact makes him feel light headed and cold. He shudders, his whole body quivering. He doesn’t appear to have any power over his body to nod, much less speak. He is floating somewhere just outside of himself only vaguely aware of a haze of terror and desire at war for control within him. He is completely surrendered to Captain John Watson. His body trembles violently in anticipation.

John seems to take his apparently discomposed state as answer enough.

“Yes, I think so,” John says tonelessly and there is a definite chill emanating from him now. His hands retreat from Sherlock’s mouth and body.

Sherlock doesn’t tip his head down or speak, though he knows he physically can, he stays stock still. Mentally fozen.

John sighs, his expression becoming concerned with a hint of guilt. He knows he should have stopped at that first whimper, but the sight of Sherlock surrendering had been so delicious , he'd got caught up in the game... He certainly had not anticipated the arrogant, impervious and tightly controlled Sherlock Holmes going completely pliant and sinking so far into a submissive state that he now can't seem to pull himself out on his own. His hands return to Sherlock; moving up and down with chaste, firm and doctorly strokes over the mentally paralyzed man's arm. Sherlock starts to come to the surface, the fog clearing from his mind.

“Since you're so keen on doing experiments on me, I thought I might do a little experiment of my own… see if there is anything to this _pursuit predation_ idea... because who should I find in my bed tonight but Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes doing another _damn_ experiment on me,” John says with familiar exasperation. The military edge is gone from his tone now. There is only the frustration, irritation and a weariness that is common in their various rows. Sherlock grabs onto this thread of familiarity and tries to use it to pull himself back to himself. The shuddering of his body has given way to small tremors firing randomly in different muscle groups, and he feels as if he is scattered in a million pieces.

“For a man that makes his living understanding people and has a giant Mind Palace to keep every fact under the sun squirreled away,” John continues conversationally as his competent hands work over Sherlock, as if reviving him. “It wouldn't seem like I should have to keep reminding you... _Yet,_ you keep testing me. Keep experimenting on me.” There is a tinge of anger, but definite disappointment and hurt in John’s voice now. Sherlock blinks off the last of the haze and tilts his head down; the sting of John’s words at last registering. 

_This was an experiment. John’s not going to take him. John doesn't want that._

“John-” His voice is strangled, barely recognizable to his own ears.

Suddenly he is on his back, looking up at John who is looming over him, John's muscular arms are caging both Sherlock at the shoulders. 

“Doesn’t feel so good to be experimented on, _does it,_ Sherlock?” John’s eyes are alight with fury, his jaw is set. Sherlock studies his face cataloging the mixture of intense anger and the hint of arousal. He blinks, settling into his own skin again. Those eyes, even filled with those mostly unpleasant emotions, center and ground him. When he looks at that face he can't help but be reminded of who John really is. As incongruous as his different parts seem, they are all there; kind and caring with a strong moral compass but also highly competent, determined and fiercely protective - dangerous to those who threaten the things he cares for deeply. Patient far beyond the capacity of most, but capable of a firey temper once he is pushed too far. 

“Did what I just do seem a bit…I don’t know… _cruel_?” John’s eyes narrow as his head cocks to the side. “Put you in a fearful situation? Force you to feel helpless?” John lowers himself to mere centimeters from Sherlock’s face “Well, it was simple fear and stimulus,” John grits out with a sharp edge of bitterness.

_Still angry._ Revise traits to include _occasionally vengeful._

Sherlock stares helplessly up at hi . He sees the hurt in his friend's deep blue eyes and he knows he caused it by experimenting on him in Baskerville. He is deserving of this anger. He _is._ He betrayed the trust John so easily placed in him. Desperate as he was to understand how to properly cope with such intense fear, he concluded that John, the bravest man he knows, could demonstrate how. He had completely disregarded how hurtful and traumatic such an experience would be for the ex-soldier.

John is studying him now. His expression flows into something darker, the light draining out of his eyes and his mouth turning down as he looks a combination of frustrated and wounded. “You really don't see me _at all,_ do you, Sherlock? If you think I'd do _that_ to you - take advantage... you really are an idiot.”

Sherlock knows he is right. John wouldn't, _couldn't,_ hurt him in that way. Strong, brave, honorable John. From all evidence, in spite of a very active libido, John seems to considers sex a highly intimate act of both physical and emotional connection. When Sherlock doesn't interfere, he loyally pursues and builds relationships over weeks and even months before going to that level of intimacy. Taking it by force against the will of his partner would not align with his character as caregiver and protector. 

Moreover, Sherlock realizes that, because of John's full investment in his partners and the intensity and devastating whole-heartedness of his desire, making love to John could be nothing less than a mind shattering experience; a full and willing surrender of all parts of oneself. 

Something in Sherlock clicks into place and it crashes down on him like a landslide. _He wants John_. He wants John like all the worst cravings of every nicotine and cocaine withdrawal rolled into one. It is bone deep, hollowed-out, not sure if he can go on breathing desire and his body is vibrating with it. It's always been there, that tightness in his chest, that irritation he feels when John gives his attention to another, the emptiness when he is gone.

_Stupid. Stupid. So obvious and you'd failed to see it this entire time._

John starts to push away and Sherlock uses every bit of strength to surge forward into a haphazard kiss. For a moment their lips are pressed together awkwardly before it explodes into something desperate and fierce; heat, desire and fear making it more battle than snogging. Then, because his limbs are useless to hold John in place and prevent his retreat, he closes his teeth around John's bottom lip and holds on fiercely.

“Ouuu!” John exclaims trying to retreat, but Sherlock holds on, putting slightly more pressure on the trapped lip. Consequences be damned because now Sherlock has felt John's powerful arms wrapped around him, his body hot and hard with desire moving against his own, and he can’t let _that_ slip away.

“S’erlock let ‘o” John grumbles, trying not to move his lips too much and injure himself.

“Nough!” Sherlock grunts. He manages to twine two fingers into a tenuous grip on the fabric of John's pajamas bottoms near his knee. It isn't his most brilliant plan, but when it comes to John he seems to lose all higher reasoning and just be reduced to reactionary instincts, which are, apparently, _horrible_ at the long game. John shifts his hands on the bed and huffs.

“‘T’is is ‘urtin’ me.” John growls.

“‘Orry,” Sherlock says sincerely, but remains determined to hold on. However, to demonstrate his regret for needing to resort to such drastic measures, his tongue strokes soothingly over John's captured lip. John chuckles and falls forward on to his forearms, bringing their faces closer together.

“‘Ur ‘irdic-los,” John says fondly. He slips his thumb in between Sherlock's molars and presses back towards his cheek until his mouth is forced open enough for John to pull his lip through the gap. Sherlock grunts and whines, but is unable to resist the efficiently executed tactic.

“No ‘ohn” Sherlock says around John's thumb still wedged in his back teeth. His face is blazing with anger and frustration and he is trying to hold on with his fingers wrapped in the sleep trousers of the man above him.

“Calm down, you git,” John orders. He curls his bottom lip over his teeth and runs his tongue over it . He slips his thumb out of Sherlock’s mouth and inspects the damage briefly as he lifts up onto his hands; some red marks from Sherlock chomping down in his effort to speak, but no broken skin.

“You're a bloody menace,” he mutters with a shake of his head and looks down at Sherlock. The detective watches him closely, incapable of doing little else. 

John's thinner pink lips are smiling in that slightly crooked _no-giggling-at-crime-scenes_ way; as if he doubts his own sanity for finding it all amusing. His tongue keeps unconsciously pushing at and tasting at his own lips. He looks Sherlock over slowly and his expression shifts towards concern for the wide eyes staring back at him. 

“Listen, you didn't have to do that.” His eyes flick to Sherlock’s lips then back up to meet the probing gaze. “I know that's not _your area_ …”

“Pay attention, John. I said _girlfriends_ aren't my area,” Sherlock corrects haughtily. Then his face flushes a little and he diverts his eyes to John’s neck, studying the slightly elevated throb of his pulse beneath his skin there. 

_Anger? Alarm? Desire?_

“Right…” John says slowly. “I just mean Mycroft said... it... _alarms_ you…”

“Mycroft's an idiot,” Sherlock growls. John’s sighs in resigned frustration.

“Alright… just forget that, OK… just… I'm not mad… not _anymore_ … I mean... got it out of my system now… as long as you don't experiment on me anymore. That's _all_ I wanted... You don't have to… whatever the hell _that_ was… to apologize or something.”

“I'm not,” Sherlock snaps.

“Right,” John says, placating, almost before Sherlock can finish his vehement rejection of John's statement. “Right,” he repeats slower, with a nod. Obviously not willing to press the issue anymore.

“Just going to climb off you now then,” John says a bit awkwardly. “I'd appreciate it if I'm not bitten and if my trousers could go with,” he says with a wry smile glancing down at Sherlock’s hands twined in the fabric above his knees.

“No,” Sherlock says flatly, clutching tighter. John can, of course, break the fragile hold and move away, but he isn't going to make it any easier on him. 

“No?” John huffs with that air of challenge coming onto his face. His jaw sets with determination, but his eyes crinkle at the corners and his lips curl in amusement as if he anticipates a good verbal row. But this isn't to be a verbal sparring match. Sherlock has exactly one move and it requires no words. He looks up at John with his eyes completely naked, no shields or false personas; there is only the blazing, untempered desire of a thousand aching moments, the soul-crushing, mind-warping, unassailable need, and, most terrifying of all, there is overwhelming love.

John sucks in a deep breath, his face going completely slack in shock and awe, then his features gathers into an expression… the _undefinable expression_ that started this all. 

“Sherlock?” John's voice is rough and barely more than a husky whisper. Sherlock is studying his face, trying desperately to understand the combination of heat and softness, fierceness and submission when he is struck by a sudden moment of perspective. If he had ever dared to look at himself in the mirror with unshielded eyes this mystery expression would have been clear months ago. It is a perfect reflection of the raw desire, need and love currently in his own expression.

“Oh,” he gasps, his eyes growing wide and a smile of revelation spreading across his face, lighting all his features. John can't help but smile back. 

And that is how their second kiss begins, softly, with lips pulled tight in smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So aggressive John surprised me by coming out to play in this story; what started out as just being a bit silly and fluffy, went a bit dark then came back to silly with a sweet conclusion. 
> 
> **Go for a third chapter of smut or leave it here and let your imagination run wild? What do you suggest, dear reader?**
> 
> As always, I look forward to and appreciate your comments and Kudos.


	3. An Act or Process

The smile straining their lips quickly dissolves as the sliding, pressing and pulling of lips becomes more heated and intense; a battle to give and take pleasure with equal fervor ensues. For once, Sherlock finds himself outmatched. John’s lips, both stronger and more delicate than he ever imagined, nip and pull and plunder his own plump lips in ways that make the detective forget his need to conquer and possess all of John with temporary lapses into complete surrender. 

Sherlock groans when John’s body sinks into him; the heat, the weight and the strength of firm muscles pinning him to the mattress makes his mind go dim momentarily. His body goes lax, an embarrassing whimper crawls up his throat and he comes back to himself some seconds later with John taking full advantage of his body's complete openness; tongue plunging into his parted lips to taste and tease. 

Sherlock resurges with increased determination but is met by John’s steady, persistent and completely devastating play upon his senses; mercilessly drawing him to the perfect tension like fine tuning a string of his violin.

John works to contain the urge to grin as the sounds from Sherlock move from soft little pants to frustrated and agitated hums and grunts. And, of course, the whimpers; John’s considerable restraint definitely quakes on its foundation with each little simpering sigh of submission he expertly draws from the man. For once Sherlock's propensity for underestimating him has a clear advantage. Every unintended surrender by the man pressed beneath him tells him that the genius at last does _not_ know something that John _does._ With all his efforts to remain completely cerebral he has neglected his own transport and is utterly unprepared for the depth and breadth of pleasures John can evoke from it. This is one lesson John is going to enjoy teaching his companion. 

After a sweeping invasion and an expert thrust and flick of tongue renders Sherlock temporarily incapacitated again, John eases back slightly to more gentle, closed-mouthed kisses. Sherlock resurfaces and immediately grapples for control, trying to deepen the kiss and growing frustrated at John's teasing reticence.

“These. Off,” Sherlock growls into John's lips pulling at John's sleep trousers. He uses an enormous amount of effort but only manages a weak and ineffectual tug. John chuckles and straightens his arms, lifting himself up. He stares at Sherlock’s reddened lips with something between satisfaction and hunger before pulling his gaze up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. His grin grows when he sees those pupils blown wide with arousal into dark pools lined with silver.

“Well, it'd hardly be a fair fight _now_ ,” John muses.

“I wasn't intending to _fight you_ , John” Sherlock snaps, glaring up at him. His expression is exasperation mixed with appalled irritation as if he's just discovered John has the intelligence of a small rodent.

“Yeah… right.... I can take a guess what you intend." John rolls his hips down against Sherlock in a slow, teasing motion. Sherlock gasps, throwing his head back. The friction makes his whole body ache in painful need for more pleasure. John can't resist swiping his tongue across that exposed neck and making a single gentle nip at the jaw before he lifts off him again.

“Still, you’re hardly in a state for such activities,” John says, firmly setting his jaw and lifting his eyebrows in challenge. Sherlock is not deterred.

“Don't be ridiculous, John. As you can well see, everything _that matters_ is still fully functional.” John looks down between their bodies. Sherlock’s erection is tenting his pajama bottoms, impressively reaching for John, but little else of the man can do so. He scoffs, lifting further off of the body beneath.

“I see… Right, then… let’s see you do something with it.” Sherlock tries to arch up towards John but his uncooperative body only jiggles, not even gaining a centimeter in John's direction. Sherlock glares up at John, biting down on the urge to scream in frustration.

“That's what I thought,” John smirks, lowering himself back down. “Necrophilia isn't really my thing.”

“It would hardly be-”

“Yeah. No… Don't know what your previous experiences were like, but _with me_ you're not just going to just lay there... it's a _participatory_ sport.”

“Really, John,” Sherlock grumbles, brow wrinkling in irritation at John's analogies. “Sport?” 

John tips his chin down and stares into Sherlock's eyes from under his brow.

“Oh. Yes… of a sort,” he growls. The promise of dangers unknown in his voice sends a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. He quite suddenly feels… _hunted._ It is not a sensation he is accustomed to, but he is quite alarmed that John seems to have mastered how to evoke it in him within the last hour. He swallows and schools his expression to neutral, but John is already grinning in wicked satisfaction; well aware of what he has done to the younger man. He presses his face over Sherlock's shoulder, relishing the soft fragrant curls brushing against his face catching in his stubble.

“Besides,” John says, his tongue curling along the outer shell of Sherlock’s ear and flicking at the lobe. “I have a feeling, between you and I, it might be a bit more like fighting than not.” John’s tongue is dipping into the hollow of Sherlock’s ear as his body presses down harder; somewhere between taunt and threat. Though he knows it is blatant manipulation Sherlock feels himself turning into a warm puddle under that surprisingly talented and decidedly wicked tongue. “At least I hope so,” John’s voice is a deep throaty purr, like the rumbling of a pleased lion, and Sherlock feels the little jitter surge through him as John nips down on his lobe.

Quite suddenly John is no longer on top of him. He springs from his bed and is standing, looking down at Sherlock.

Sherlock nearly falls off the bed in an effort to follow him. He glares after John. _This is unacceptable._ There is a high probability that, given the time to thoughtfully consider the implications of a sexual encounter, John will reconsider and once more be... _unattainable._

“John,” Sherlock growls through gritted teeth, his eyes flick pointedly to the bulge in John's trousers “Give me it. I _need_ it.”

“Nope,” John lets the word pop on his lips. Sherlock wants those lips back against his own so badly he growls, clenching his hands into fists, his whole body quivering with frustration. He scrunches his eyes closed and frantically scours his Mind Palace for a tactic to convince the stubborn ex-soldier to climb back on top of him and rodger him into the mattress. 

When he opens his eyes they are soft and pleading. A contrite frown pulls at the corners of his mouth.

“Please - _Please_ , John,” he says softly and adds some slow blinks, lashes fluttering, and a tilt up of his chin, offering his neck for John's ravaging.

The left corner of John's mouth pulls into an amused smirk. He shakes his head back and forth. “Didn't work for the cigarettes, not going to work for this.”

Sherlock looks enraged for a moment. Then in a blink of an eye his face becomes serious and stoic. “John, I think you should know-” he stops, throwing in a masterfully played hint of embarrassment with a downward cast of his eyes and a twitch of his lips. “I have a medical condition... it requires immediate relief of engorged penal tissue or... I risk _permanent damage._ ” He manages to look suitably humiliated so that almost anyone else would be fooled by the talented genius, but the flick of his eyes upward to assess John's reaction is very telling.

"Oh?"John leans back a little, his eyebrows high in his sleep mussed fringe portraying alarm at the revelation. Then he leans down close, his lips hovering over Sherlock’s and his voice deep and silky. 

“In that case…” He barely brushes his bottom lip over Sherlock’s top. He hovers, ghosting his warm breath over Sherlock’s parting lips. Sherlock hums his approval, his breathing quickening in anticipation of John's kisses ravaging him again. John's words are breathed directly onto his lips.

“Lubes in the drawer. Go fuck yourself, git,” John deadpans. 

He pulls back to see the look of pure shock take over the foggy lust in Sherlock's wide eyes. He turns on his heels and marches out the door, slamming it behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... maybe just the mood I am in but John has got a fix on Sherlock and is totally going to enjoy driving him a bit crazy.
> 
>  
> 
> **thank you for reading. Your Kudos and comments are always appreciated.**

**Author's Note:**

> This is just mindless fluff. Is it _good fluff_ , I don't know. I was up way too late and need to distract my brain, so it just... sort of... _happened_.  
>  If you enjoyed it, spread the joy by leaving me with a **kudo or comment!**  
>  It means a lot.


End file.
